A Night in the Life
by Heimeldat
Summary: A metahuman serial killer has captured Batman and Robin. She's decided Robin will be the next victim of her trademark death trap, and Batman can't escape quickly enough to do anything.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I guess people usually include disclaimers, so here goes: I don't own any of this stuff, or I'd be writing comic scripts, not fanfic._

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter One**

He woke in darkness with a headache like a knife through the temple. He tensed, found himself pinned down. The goons in the alley—no, that was over. And if they took him down, what about—

"Robin!" His voice came out harsher than usual.

"Present."

He let out a long, slow breath. Dick was alive. That was enough to pull him up out of the fog of pain and snap him back into focus. He located the heavy swish of Kevlar-laced cloth and the familiar breathing pattern, tense but steady, about fifteen feet to his right.

"Welcome back," said Robin. "I was starting to get worried, there." The usual bright tone, edged with sarcasm and hardly a whisper of worry. Batman never would have thought to use laughter to hide fear. But for Dick, it worked.

"I'm fine," he lied. "You?"

"Fine, of course." Tension piled up under the flippant answer, but not panic or pain. They had a moment, at least.

Bruce relaxed, stretched out his senses, took quick stock of the situation. A fringe of rough cloth pressed against his cheeks. A blindfold, over the cowl. As if that could keep him in the dark. He smelled blood, tasted it at the corner of his mouth. He felt smooth metal under his back, still cool—he hadn't been here long. His cape was gone. So was the familiar pressure of his belt. He tried flicking his wrist to slide the spare lock picks into his palm, but found his hands encased in metal. Well caught.

Too well caught. This wasn't Petra's style. And she didn't know the tricks up his gloves; she couldn't know to immobilise his hands. She had help.

He turned his focus outward. Musty air, tinged with the smells of mildew and rust and salt. A drip echoed to his left, ten or twelve feet away. Distant traffic murmured behind him, barely audible. More than enough clues. He knew where he was, more or less.

"Still there?" called Robin.

"Yes. Report."

"Thought you'd never ask. We're in a warehouse near the docks. Can't be more specific; I was blindfolded and couldn't hear much over the truck engine. We drove for about ten minutes, been here about the same."

That confirmed his guess of location. "Our hosts?"

"Petra and seven goons that I saw. I guess we took out the rest, huh? They all left a few minutes ago. She said something about checking in; I guess she's not a solo act any more."

"We're alone?" He couldn't hear anyone else, but that was no guarantee.

"I'm sure there are cameras." This time the tension almost broke through the cheery tone. "We know Petra likes to watch."

He felt suddenly cold. Of course. Dick matched the profile of Petra's victims. Young, dark-haired Caucasian males in military and law enforcement. Dead on the floors of seven crime scenes, impaled bodies crumpled in their blood. And the eighth—never! He had to fight, tear free, and—

Stop. He slowed his breathing, fought down the fury and fear and closed them away behind cold bars. His voice came out hard and sharp this time: "Describe your status."

"Petra's usual setup." Robin broke off, and Bruce heard him draw a deep breath before continuing in the same casual tone. "I'm facing the wall, tied between two vertical beams with my arms and legs spread. Ordinary rope, but I can't get at it. And one really sharp crystal growing out of the wall awfully fast."

Damn meta. Point and think, and crystals started growing in whatever shape she liked. Could have been a gift. Instead she liked aiming at people's chests, then watching the crystal grow through skin and flesh until it pierced the heart. Never again. Not Dick, not anyone.

"At this rate I've got about four minutes left," said Dick. "Now would be the time for you to play escape artist."

Bruce twisted against his bonds. Metal clasped his throat and ankles as well as his hands. He couldn't move, couldn't reach for anything, couldn't even raise his head. He strained until the lock's edge dug into his throat and cut off his breath and bursts of colour exploded through his head. No give, no obvious weakness.

He fell back, gasping for air. Well caught indeed. He clenched his teeth. It made his head throb harder. Not useful. He exhaled slowly and forced his body to relax again. Possibilities raced through his mind and faded, useless. He was sure he could escape eventually, but not soon enough. He'd already lost nearly a minute trying to break free. Robin could cut his bonds with his lock picks, but not fast enough. In the end he knew there was only one option. Everything in him snarled in protest, but what choice was there?

"I can't get free," Bruce said. "Not in time."

Dick whistled. "Impressive." His voice stayed light and casual, but Batman could hear the fear building underneath. "Nice job, Petra! It's been, oh, a good three months since we've been in such a tight spot. Your crystals make pretty inventive death traps, too. Let's call it a seven out of ten."

"Robin."

The boy fell silent.

"Activate cowl radio," Bruce whispered. It beeped its reply. "There's a way out," he murmured. Maybe. Batman could do it. But Robin . . . Robin was trained by the best. Robin was almost a grown man. He could do it. "It won't be easy and it won't be fun."


	2. Chapter 2

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Two**

"Robin."

He fell silent. Not the right time for levity, eh? But then, as far as Bruce was concerned, there was no right time for levity. Dick twisted as far as he could, spread-eagled as he was between the support beams, and found the shadowy figure in the dimness.

Bruce lay stiff, his entire body rebelling against the manacles binding him to the table, like he could burst free by sheer force of will. "There's a way out." This time the words crackled through the transceiver in Robin's mask instead of across the room. Batman's voice sounded too calm to come from that tense body. "It won't be easy and it won't be fun."

Dick grinned. "I bet it'll be more fun than getting slowly skewered through the heart by Petra's crystal." He glanced back toward the wall. The crystal was barely two inches from his chest now, glittering blue-white and plenty sharp enough to break through the light Kevlar weave of his uniform.

"Use the crystal to cut the ropes," said Batman's voice in his ear.

"Thought of that." It was the obvious answer. "Can't reach."

"You'll have to break the crystal and catch a piece."

He'd thought of that too, of course, but hit the same problem. "Can't reach," he muttered into the radio again.

"One of Petra's victims struggled hard enough to break the crystal."

"Yeah, but that only worked after he got impaled." Dick stopped. No way. Bruce wouldn't make him—well, ok, yes he would. "You want me to—"

"The rope should stretch enough to give you a few more inches. Reposition yourself. Lean low and right. You control the impact, you control the crystal." Bruce sounded as calm and cool as if he was just assigning another exercise.

"I can't—"

"Now. Before you run out of time."

His breathing had gone quick and ragged. He sucked the air in slowly, let it hiss out between his teeth. Ok. No problem. Just another night in the life of Robin. He strained against the rope, as low and as far to the right as possible. The muscles of his left arm shrieked in protest.

"I can aim it at my shoulder." His voice sounded steadier than he expected.

"If it hits below the clavicle, you're dead."

"I know." Bruce had made him memorise every inch of human anatomy. The names of muscles pushed into his head. Trapezius and levator scapulae, one of the few places where a penetrating wound couldn't do much permanent damage.

"Now."

Dick gulped down a deep breath. Hey, this would make a good story, right? Wally would eat it up. He grinned, let out a whoop of laughter, and flung himself forward.

The crystal punched straight through the Kevlar and sheared into his flesh. He felt it scrape the top of his collarbone. Pain flashed up his neck and down his arm. He was still laughing. The crystal wasn't damaged.

The other guy had struggled. Broke it in his death throes. Dick fought to calm his breathing again. Bruce had made him study breaking glass, calculate the angular momentum of the shards. Useful for jumping through windows. Same concept. Do it.

He twisted his body sideways, jerked upward, felt the crystal splinter, and this time the noise coming out of his mouth was definitely more of a scream than a laugh.

Not really like glass after all. Didn't shatter, just cracked and split into chunks and sent fresh bolts of fire into his shoulder. The ropes were holding his full weight now, while pain blazed hot enough to melt his legs out from under him.

Bruce was talking in his ear again. Almost yelling. "Robin. Progress report. Robin!"

He mastered his breathing. Slow, deep, calm, like Bruce had taught him. The pain subsided, and he found himself grinning again. He'd just pulled a crazy Batman escape move. Wally would get that wide-eyed look and tell him he was bad-ass and totally nuts. He laughed. God, he loved endorphins.

"Robin! Are you—?"

"Progressing," he said. Bruce would probably chew him out later for that answer, but right now he didn't care. Petra liked to watch. She had seen what he did. She was probably already on her way to stop his escape. He had to finish.

Dick bent his head sideways and gripped a long shard of crystal between his teeth. It tasted like blood. He tugged. The sharp edge cut his lip. The muscles of his shoulder clenched reflexively. He bit down harder and wrenched the crystal free.

There, easy. Now for the hard part. He turned his head the other way, twisted his right hand against the ropes until the palm faced upward. Bruce had made him practice throwing things with his mouth. One of those lessons that seemed useless at the time. Thanks, Bruce. He lowered his chin, then flicked his head up and out and sent the shard of crystal in a glittering arc.

It landed on his hand and he snapped his fist shut before it could bounce away. He smirked. He was as good as free. As long as Petra didn't show up too soon. He turned the crystal and started sawing. The rope parted quickly. So did the skin on his palm and fingers. Blood slicked the crystal, and Dick had to pause and get a fresh grip.

One hand free. The other hand only took a moment. He bent down and slashed the ropes away from his ankles. "I'm loose!" he whooped. Bruce's turn. Dick flicked his wrist, and his spare lock picks slid down out of the hidden compartment in his glove.

He ran across to Bruce and started by tugging the blindfold free. Batman's cold white eyes locked onto him, as expressionless as ever, but the line of Bruce's mouth softened below the edge of the cowl and the muscles of his jaw unclenched.

Dick smiled back and started on the iron mitten sort of contraption that held down Bruce's right hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Three**

"I'm loose!"

Footsteps danced across cement, and Dick's hands brushed his cheeks as the boy pulled away the blindfold. One palm felt sticky and wet. The beast inside snarled at that, but Dick was alive, free, moving. Bruce let out his breath and realised that he had been holding it. His teeth were clenched so tightly that they hurt. He let his jaw relax as he ran his gaze over Robin.

Dick's breath came quick and shallow as he bent over the lock. His smirk curled his mouth a bit more manically than usual, and a thread of blood dripped down from his lip to his chin. The jagged tips of crystal sparkled in his shoulder, and a patch of dark red seeped down the bright red tunic, and the wrongness of that sight burned Bruce. His eyes narrowed to slits. Damn Petra and whoever she was working with. Let them do their worst to him, but Robin shouldn't have to do something like stab himself to escape. That sort of thing was _his _job, if it had to be done.

Footsteps clattered outside. At the same instant Batman heard it, Robin's head jerked up. Then he leaned low again, concentrating, and the tiny rattle of his picks in the lock grew quicker.

"Got it." The lock sprang open.

The warehouse door slammed open and goons piled in. Seven of them, like Dick said, and Petra riding their wake.

Dick pressed his lock picks into Batman's freed hand. "Don't take too long, huh?" The boy bent down, straightened with a length of rusty re-bar in his hand. He grinned and ran for the shadows.

"Get him!" yelled Petra. "But don't kill him, I'm not finished yet."

Bruce reached across his body and slipped the picks into the lock on his other hand, felt for the slide and click of the first tumbler, watched from the corner of his eye as Robin appeared from the darkness with the bar already slashing downward.

Crunch of metal against bone, howl of pain, clatter of a gun spinning away across the floor. Four gunshots, and a laugh from Dick. "Where'd you learn to aim?"

Both hands free. He moved to the band around his neck. The thunder of his pulse and breath against the metal made it hard to feel the vibrations of the tumblers. Robin leapt across his field of vision again, the improvised staff whirling. He was herding them, keeping their attention away from Batman. Good. Just a little longer.

Another crack of impact, another yelp, the thud of a large man falling badly. And the third lock clicked open. He sat up and reached for his ankles.

"Batman's escaping!" shouted Petra. "Stop him!"

The first goon rushed in too close. With his right hand Bruce kept working the lock. With his left he lashed out and got a handful of shirt, jerked downward. The man's face bounced off the edge of the table, and Bruce heard the crunch of a breaking nose. He pushed away, and the man crumpled.

Next two came from either side. He let them get hold of his arms, then jerked his hands in toward his chest. The goons staggered forward and their heads banged together. Batman barrelled forward, turning, slammed one with his shoulder and head-butted the other. Colours burst across his vision like someone hammering nails into the inside of his skull. He thought he felt a fresh trickle of blood seeping down between his skin and the cowl. Right. Head-butting, bad idea. His hands jabbed out in opposite directions, two quick strikes to the throats, and the thugs dropped.

He bent to the last lock, still blinking away flashes of pain. There should be two more goons, plus Petra. Where were they?

Two shots answered, and another laugh, breathless and shrill this time. "Almost hit me with that one. You're getting there!"

"Don't shoot at the boy, stop the Bat!" Petra shrieked.

Too late. The lock snapped open, and Batman was already in motion.

He launched himself off the table toward his enemies, heard and felt the crack of wind as a bullet whizzed past his head, and then his feet sank into one man's gut with a meaty thud and he rolled free, back on his feet before the goon hit the ground.

Robin was behind the last man, about to knock him down before he could take another shot at Batman, but Petra was behind Robin, crystals like swords in both hands, already in mid-slash.

"Duck left!" Batman yelled, and launched himself at the last goon as Robin slid sideways and whirled away into a cartwheel. Bad choice. Dick's left arm collapsed under his weight, and Petra descended, crystal blades flashing.

A bullet took one of the ears off his cowl, but the man had no time to pull the trigger again. Batman closed the distance in a blink, struck one-two-three and a sweep of the foot: broken gun hand, dislocated shoulder, bloody mouth, slammed to the ground and the thump of skull on concrete, last goon down, and in the same motion he flung the lock pick at Petra. It was too small, too light to do much damage at this range, but it stung her cheek and she flinched, and that was enough.

Dick's legs lashed up and hammered into Petra's belly, sent her staggering back, and by the time she recovered, Batman was upon her.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for the reviews, guys. I've never had anyone reading and reviewing a story as I write it before. It's a little intimidating to know that my mistakes are out there for anyone to see, but it's also great to have input as I go along. I never realised that having people reading and reviewing would prompt the muse to work faster. I'd especially appreciate constructive criticism; this story is just a fun side project for when I don't feel like working on my original fiction, so I've decided to treat it as a writing exercise. Tell me how to improve my skills!_

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Four**

"Duck left!"

He obeyed instinctively, dropped low and sidestepped, and Petra's crystals sliced a whining noise through the air just above his head. He kept moving as the blades hissed back around toward him. The momentum of his duck carried him into one of his special moves, halfway between capoeira and gymnastics. As soon as he spun into the cartwheel he realised he couldn't do it. The muscles of his shoulder clenched and tugged sickeningly around the embedded crystal, pain flashed through his arm, and he hit the ground hard.

Petra's foot slammed down on his shoulder, grinding the crystal deeper. All his breath burst out in a cry of pain, and for a second he couldn't think or see straight. Then Petra flinched, leaned her weight back off Dick's body, and he kicked hard and fast. Solid connection. She staggered away, and Dick forced himself to sit up.

Batman swooped. The wings were missing and one tall ear dangled by a thread, but that didn't matter. He threw himself between Dick and Petra and knocked her back full force, a blur of fury, blows slashing through the air so fast Dick could hardly follow them. He hadn't seen Batman cut loose like this in a long time. One crystal blade skidded away across the floor, but Petra clenched her hand and a new glittering spike formed in her fist. No use, not now. She was good, but not that good.

It was over in seconds. Petra crumpled to the floor, cradling her hands to her chest, whimpering. Her eyes were already swelling shut.

Sirens whined in the distance. Someone must have heard the gunshots. Surprising that anyone would bother calling the cops in this part of town.

Dick struggled to his feet, smirking at the sight of Petra finally down, but he knew the elation wouldn't last. He hated this part. Now that the action was over, he could feel the endorphins and adrenaline fading away, leaving him weak and trembling. He took a step back and leaned against one of the rusty support beams. Why couldn't the rush last? Pain started twisting its way into his shoulder again, and he noticed the throbbing sting in his hand for the first time. His fingers curled shut reflexively around the pain.

"Robin."

He opened his eyes at the weight of Bruce's hand on his good shoulder.

Batman stood before him, hauling a dazed goon by the collar. "My radio's dead," he said, gesturing toward the broken cowl ear. He dropped his hand from Dick's shoulder and shook the thug. "Address! What's this place's address?"

"Um, 814 Brine Lane," the guy mumbled.

Batman nodded. "Make the necessary call." He whirled and dragged the goon off to join his moaning pile of friends.

Call. Right. Without their belts and gear, they couldn't summon the car. Dick tried to raise his left hand to change his radio's frequency, and gasped at the wrench of torn muscles flexing against jagged crystal. He used his right hand instead, and tried not to bend the fingers. Half-dried blood crusted his glove. He couldn't see the damage.

The radio crackled over to the manor's channel, and after a moment Alfred's sleep-smeared voice mumbled, "Master Bruce, how goes the—"

"It's me."

"Ah, Master Dick. If I may say so, you sound dreadful."

A smile tugged half-heartedly at his mouth. "Thanks. We've lost our gear. Send the car to 814 Brine Lane, will you?"

"Of course. Given its current location, I expect it shall find you in five minutes."

"Great. See you soon." Dick flipped the radio back to Batman's frequency and let his hand fall to his side. "It's on the way," he called to Bruce.

Bruce nodded. "Go meet it." He dropped the last goon into the heap. Then he grabbed Petra and hauled her upright. She moaned and her head sagged forward between hunched shoulders. Her eyes flickered open but she dangled limply from his grasp, not even trying to stand. How badly had he hurt her? He wasn't normally so brutal, so merciless…

Dick opened his mouth to say something, but Batman gave him a sharp look. Go meet the car, all right. He pushed himself away from the rusty girder, and wobbled. No great surprise. Pain, adrenaline let-down, weariness, blood loss, dehydration. Anything else? He sucked in a deep breath and forced his legs to take steady steps toward the nearest door. He thought he could feel Petra's eyes following him until he slipped out into the night.

The salty ocean breeze smelled delicious after the musty air in the warehouse. Dick leaned against the wall by the door, then gave in and let himself slide down to sit on the damp pavement. Just for a minute. The cold wall felt good against his back. He could still hear the sirens coming closer. They only had a couple minutes anyway. Whatever Bruce was doing with Petra, he'd better hurry.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Five**

"It's on the way."

Batman nodded as he pulled the last enemy upright and shoved him on top of the others. From the corner of his eye he could see Robin sagging. "Go meet it," he said, and lifted Petra to her feet. Time to talk. His hands clenched around her upper arms, and she groaned. The beast inside him screamed for more blood. He forced it into submission. It didn't matter what she had done. He had already given his rage too much freedom.

Dick hadn't moved. He leaned against the support girder, staring at Petra. Assessing, not afraid. Good. But he wasn't obeying, either, just standing there looking dazed and exhausted. He needed to get out of this place. Batman shot him a look, and he lifted his head and walked to the door, straight and steady and slow.

Petra's gaze followed Robin, and a crooked little smile slunk across her face. Oh, no she didn't. His fingers dug into her arms and he jerked her around so she couldn't watch Dick.

As soon as the boy vanished outside, Batman dragged Petra across the room and slammed her down onto the table where he had been pinned a few minutes before. "Who hired you?" he growled.

Her swollen eyes blinked in and out of focus. Damn it. He'd hit her too hard and he was running out of time. The noise of sirens swelled toward them, louder every second. No time for finesse. Batman banged his fist down beside her head. "Petra! Who hired you?"

She twitched a smile and mumbled, "I'm a loner."

"You're a liar!" Shouting made his head throb harder. He thumped his other hand down on the other side of her head and leaned close. "I know you, Petra. You _were _a loner. But you didn't set this up. Someone offered you a deal you couldn't resist. Who was it?"

She spat blood. It didn't make it past her chin. "If you know me, you know I won't talk to the bad cop. I like the young, sweet, idealistic ones. You're too jaded. Not my type."

The sirens wailed to a stop outside. Two cars, by the sound. Out of time. He clicked the table's restraints shut over Petra's broken hands, then tossed a batarang onto her chest and followed Robin out the back door.

The car was waiting. He leapt in and stepped on the gas before the door had finished closing. Damp pavement rasped and hissed under the wheels as he spun toward home. Robin's breathing was pained but strong beside him. He glanced sideways for a quick assessment.

The car's first aid kid sat open on the floor. Dick slumped back against the headrest, eyes closed, holding a wad of gauze to his shoulder with his clenched right hand. As Bruce's gaze fell on him, his eyes opened and he cracked a thin smile. "Did she sing?"

"No. How's your shoulder?"

"Hurts. Still bleeding a little."

"Don't put too much pressure on it."

"I know. Never place direct pressure against an embedded object…" His voice trailed off into silence.

Batman's head snapped around. "Robin. Dick!"

"Still here." He gave a ghost of his wicked grin. "Did I scare you?"

Batman's shoulders hunched in over the wheel, as if leaning forward could make the car move faster. "Wear the emergency blanket."

"I'm not in shock."

"Do it."

Dick leaned forward and scooped up the blanket, and froze like that for a second, doubled over. He sucked in a sharp hiss of air. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again, and his breathing resumed its steady rhythm. Long, slow breaths, too steady; Batman recognised one of the pain management techniques he had taught Dick.

After a moment Dick straightened and sank back against the seat. Batman's hands clenched around the steering wheel at the sight of the boy struggling to unfold the blanket without bending his fingers. "Your hand?" he asked. Back in the warehouse, he had assumed the blood on Robin's glove came from his shoulder.

"Cut it up on the crystal." Dick gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Hurts, but I don't think it's too bad."

"Anything else?"

"Bruises from the fight. And afterward—" Dick's voice lightened to a too-casual tone that set alarm bells screaming in Batman's head. "When they were tying me up, I think they injected me with something."

His shoulders tensed as scenarios started playing through his mind. He forced himself to unknot his back and focus on driving, but his foot jammed down harder against the gas pedal and the pounding pain in his head grew sharper. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was a little busy."

"You should have told me the minute Petra was down! Who knows what—"

"I'm telling you now." Dick smirked. "You drive twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit at the best of times. Causing an accident won't get us home faster."

Batman drew a deep breath and accelerated a little more. Dick was right, of course. But seconds could make all the difference. The speedometer inched toward 80. "There's an antitoxin cocktail in the bottom of the first aid kit," he said. "Use it."

Dick found the little plastic case and opened it clumsily with his injured hand. "I didn't know this was in here."

"It's a recent addition." He watched as Dick pulled out the pre-filled syringe and injected himself. His hand trembled and it took him three tries to find the vein. A symptom of pain? Shock? Or some deadly venom working its way through his system?

"Car!" said Dick.

Batman swerved and forced his attention back to the road.

Dick sniggered, closed his eyes again. "You're doing 85 in a 45 mile per hour zone."

Batman ignored him, keyed the car's radio. "Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Set up for a full blood analysis. And get an antitoxin mix ready for me." He'd been unconscious for nearly half an hour. Petra had surely injected him too. He didn't feel sick, but that didn't mean anything. It could be slow-acting. The shakiness and blurred vision which he had attributed to the blow to his head could just as easily be symptoms of poison.

"Right away, sir. Over and out."

The last few minutes of the drive passed in silence, except for the hum of the engine and the hiss of Dick's breathing and the crinkle of the emergency blanket shifting with the car's motion. The cave entrance opened before them and Batman took the curves way too quickly and skidded to a halt next to Alfred.

He sprang out and beat Alfred to the passenger's side. "Robin, we're here."

Dick's eyes flickered open, but he didn't move.

Batman bent down and lifted Robin out of the car. He was too big to carry, but Bruce did it anyway. The emergency blanket scrunched higher on Dick's lap and his cape bunched up behind him and snagged on the spikes of Bruce's gauntlet.

"Nothing wrong with my legs," mumbled Dick. But his body trembled against Batman's chest and his breath caught with pain at every motion.

Bruce lowered him onto the edge of Alfred's examining table, still in a sitting position, then straightened and tugged off one glove.

Alfred stepped in and shot a dose of antitoxin into his arm. "I'll take over now, Master Bruce. I trust you can draw your own blood sample."

"Yes." He accepted a blood kit from Alfred and perched on the nearest chair. As he slid the needle into his arm, lists of poisons and remedies swirled through his mind. His antitoxin mixture included antivenoms, neutralising agents, synthetic antidotes, enough to handle any common poisons. He allowed himself to relax a little. Almost safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Six**

"Robin, we're here."

He didn't move. On the way home he had started feeling dizzy and nauseous. But now that the car had stopped, as long as he sat still and breathed shallowly, he didn't hurt too much. He felt warm and comfortable under the blanket, with his left arm supported across his lap. Moving wasn't going to be fun.

Then Bruce's arms slid under him and picked him up so smoothly that it hardly even hurt his shoulder. Like he was still a little kid. He licked his dry lips and managed to say, "Nothing wrong with my legs." But then his head throbbed and his stomach heaved, and he had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up. And when Bruce started walking, every step sent a jolt of pain through him. It seemed to take ages to cross the cave.

At last Bruce set him down, and he hunched over with his arms curled over his belly and tried to force himself to relax. He knew tensing his muscles would only make the pain worse, but he couldn't help it.

"I'll take over now, Master Bruce," said Alfred. "I trust you can draw your own blood sample."

"Yes." Bruce stepped out of Dick's field of vision, and he couldn't summon the energy to turn his head.

Alfred snapped on a pair of gloves and peeled back the edge of the gauze pad still stuck to Robin's wet tunic. He clicked his tongue. "I see you've ruined yet another uniform. I do have other duties besides tailoring, you know."

A few retorts flicked through Dick's mind, but all that came out was, "Yeah." Waves of nausea rolled through him.

"As you don't seem to be in immediate danger from this injury, I shall begin with the blood sample for Master Bruce," said Alfred, swabbing the crook of Dick's arm. "And there's no need to emulate his stubborn 'macho' act. Lie down before you fall down, if you please."

He wasn't trying to be macho, he just didn't want to move. But he gritted his teeth and eased himself down onto the table. It did feel better, lying flat, especially once Alfred draped another emergency blanket over him. He let out his breath in a long, slow trickle and willed the tension out of his body. It sort of worked. He lay there with his eyes shut, barely aware of anything until Alfred spoke again.

"Master Bruce, here's your sample. But as soon as I finish tending to Master Dick, I want you to come over here for medical attention as well."

"I'm fine," grunted Bruce.

"You're bleeding."

"Negligible."

"You know as well as I that a head injury is never negligible."

"He was unconscious for over twenty minutes," murmured Dick. Without opening his eyes, he could feel Bruce glowering. A smirk twitched the corner of his mouth.

"I will look you over as soon as possible," said Alfred firmly.

"Fine."

"Now, Master Dick, let's get you patched up, shall we? Thankfully, you don't seem to have lost an excessive amount of blood."

"No." He could feel the patch of half-dried blood plastering his shirt to his chest and upper arm, but it wasn't too much.

"Then I expect a saline solution shall suffice," Alfred said, pulling off Dick's left glove. "And will also be helpful if you have, in fact, been poisoned."

He felt an IV prick into his hand, followed by the sticky pressure of tape. Then a rustle of cloth—Alfred rolling up his sleeves, no doubt—and the cold touch of metal at his throat. He tensed automatically, eyes snapping open, but Alfred's hand landed on the centre of his chest and he fell still.

"Just my scissors," Alfred assured him.

The cold edge slid down over his collarbone and started cutting slowly through the reinforced fabric. Dick bit his lip as Alfred peeled back the cloth. It pulled at his skin and he tried not to flinch away. Just a few more seconds and Alfred would say that sentence Dick had come to love over the years.

"Hold still, sir, and I shall give you a local anaesthetic."

The needle felt more like a knife, punching in among the already screaming nerve endings, but then the pain melted away into numbness and Dick felt the tension crumpling out of him at last. His back relaxed against the table, and he realised he had been lying with his shoulders curled inward around the pain. He still felt sick, but he managed to grin up at Alfred. "That's better."

"I should hope so. Now do try to lie still. Despite my years of experience removing foreign objects from the two of you, I'm still far less adept at this than Dr. Thompkins."

"Where is she?"

"Otherwise occupied. I fear you shall have to make do with me."

"You're just as good."

"Far from true, Master Dick, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. There." He held up a bloody sliver of crystal. "That's the largest bit, but it appears to have broken into several smaller pieces."

"I know." Dick shuddered at the memory of that twisting, splintering explosion of pain. He gulped a few times and didn't vomit. He felt sweaty under the blanket now, despite the cold air of the cave.

"You're moving."

"Sorry."

"No harm done." Alfred waved another crystal shard through his line of vision. "That's two. From the nature of your injury, may I assume you found your quarry?"

"Yeah, although—" He broke off and shut his eyes and mouth until the nausea ebbed a little. With his eyes closed the light didn't burn into his head so much, either. He sucked in a long breath and continued. "Although I'm not sure she really was the quarry until the very end. She was waiting for us with a few dozen goons. We held our own at first, but there were too many. One got in a lucky hit and took Bruce out, and then I didn't have a chance." Dick shivered again. He'd panicked for a minute there, when Batman hit the ground hard and didn't move and all the thugs descended on Robin and—

"And that's when Petra stabbed you?"

"No, that's not her style. It was after she captured us that she—well, technically I did this to myself." He tried to keep his voice casual. No big deal. Part of him even felt proud of it, like it was some kind of test of manliness or willpower. Maybe it was. He smiled.

"Good heavens!" Alfred looked so appalled that Dick couldn't leave it at that.

"It's not like I had a choice," he muttered. "You've seen how her death traps work. I was going to get skewered either way. Better to do it my way than hers."

"I see." Alfred sighed. "Well, that's all the pieces out, anyway."

His stomach lurched again. "I think I'm going to puke now."

Alfred slipped an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up, then produced a bucket from somewhere and held it under his chin while he threw up.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No need to apologise." Alfred wedged the bucket between Dick's knees. "Perhaps you had best remain sitting until you're finished."

"Yeah." Maybe. He felt dizzy enough that he might fall right over. He gagged and bent over the bucket again.

"But please try not to move too much. I still need to clean and stitch this wound."

He huddled over the pail, eyes squeezed shut, willing the nausea to subside. After a few minutes and two more uses of the bucket, it did. Dick straightened up, shaking, and found himself drenched with sweat and neatly bandaged.

Alfred smoothed the last piece of tape into place. "Please try not to pull any stitches this time. Almost finished; give me your hand now."

Dick tried to uncurl his fingers and felt half-dried scabs cracking and bleeding. His whole hand felt stiff and sore, but he hardly cared any more. He watched dully as Alfred cut away his glove and began to clean the cuts.

"How is he?" asked Bruce from behind him.

"As well as can be expected." Alfred started wrapping his hand in gauze. "The injury to his shoulder, though deep, is only a flesh wound. His hand does not require stitches and he seems to have stopped vomiting."

"Good."

"Lie down and rest, Master Dick."

He obeyed. He wasn't sure he could have stayed upright much longer anyway. Everything blurred together into a muddle of weariness and queasiness and pain. He felt Alfred's hands tucking a blanket around him, heard Alfred and Bruce talking beside him, but it all seemed distant and unimportant. He drifted away.


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm sorry for taking so long to update with such a short chapter. My life has been busy and I've not had time to write anything at all of late. Hopefully I'll be able to start updating semi-regularly again._

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Seven**

"Almost finished."

Bruce looked up at Alfred's words. The computer had started both blood analyses; he could leave it to its own devices now. He let his eyes fall shut. It eased the throbbing of his head a little, but not the sick dizziness. No matter. He could work through it.

He rose and swept back across the cave to the medical section. From thirty feet away he could see Dick's shaking as he hunched over a bucket. From ten feet away he could see the boy's hair and skin dripping sweat. Trembling, vomiting, sweating, dizziness; all textbook symptoms of envenoming.

"How is he?" he asked unnecessarily.

Alfred didn't look up from Dick's wounded hand. "As well as can be expected. The injury to his shoulder, though deep, is only a flesh wound. His hand does not require stitches and he seems to have stopped vomiting."

"Good." Bruce checked the saline bag, examined the bandage on Dick's shoulder, walked around the table finding no fault to fix, nothing to help with.

Alfred gave him a look, and he fell still.

"Lie down and rest, Master Dick," said Alfred.

Dick all but fell over backwards, and Bruce slipped a hand behind his head and eased him down. He wasn't sure the boy was even alert enough to notice.

"Your turn, sir."

He sank into a chair and watched the rise and fall of Dick's breathing, slower and more peaceful than he had heard since they found Petra. Behind him came the rubbery squeak of old gloves peeling off and new ones snapping onto Alfred's hands. He didn't move as Alfred drew back his cowl. The cloth ripped away the scab with it, and blood started dripping down his cheek again.

"Oh, dear. Sorry, sir."

"Stop fussing, Alfred. I'm fine." Bruce made a grab for the gauze, but Alfred got there first and pressed it to his forehead.

"Master Dick said you lost consciousness."

"About twenty minutes." He held up a hand to forestall Alfred's questions, and lowered it quickly as he realised it was shaking. "Yes, I'm nauseous and lightheaded. Yes, my memory of the fight is fuzzy. No, I don't have time for a CT scan now."

"Master Bruce, I must insist that you—"

"I will not sit here helpless while—" He stopped himself, drew a deep breath. "Petra was acting on orders. I'm going back out, Alfred."

Silence fell for a few seconds, then Alfred said, "Would you hand me that medical tape?"

Bruce gave it to him.

"Master Dick said his wounds were self-inflicted."

Bruce clenched his teeth and tried not to remember Dick screaming in pain. He should have found another way out. He could have, if he'd just had a few more minutes. "It was the only way," he muttered.

"Mm." Was that a hint of reproach?

"If I could have done it myself—"

"Then you'd be in no shape to go out and find Petra's master. Not that you really are. But when do you ever listen to medical advice? There you go."

Bruce ran a hand over the bandage. "Thanks." He rose, fished a new cowl from a drawer, pulled it over his face.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure." Whoever did this was familiar enough with his methods to know how to capture him. Process of elimination. This wasn't Joker's style; besides, he was in Arkham. There was no dual theme. Black Mask, maybe. Or a new player who had done his homework. He had hardly narrowed it down.

Bruce pulled himself up on the edge of the table. The nausea that had been nibbling at the edges of his gut threatened to well up. Damn it, he didn't have time for that. He rummaged in one of Alfred's drawers and found a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Alfred eyed him. "Sir, you do realise you're displaying the same symptoms as Master Dick."

"Obviously." He took a swig of the Pepto-Bismol. "But less severe. I'll be fine." He strode over to the car and shut himself in before Alfred could object. He stepped on the gas.

Alfred's voice crackled over the radio. "If the nausea or dizziness worsens—"

"I know. You worry too much."

"You rarely give me cause to worry less."

Bruce felt a pang of guilt at the weariness in Alfred's voice, and quickly pushed it aside. "Call me when you finish the blood work."

"Of course, sir."

"Or if Dick wakes up."

"I will."

He accelerated toward the seediest part of town. Billy the Germ always heard what was going on, and could usually be convinced to squeal for the right price. If there was any word on the street about this latest scheme, he'd know.


	8. Chapter 8

_To anyone still reading, many apologies for taking so long to update. Eighteen credits plus two part time jobs equals no time to write. But the end of the story is in sight, and now that I've found some time, I intend to finish this before my insane life catches up again. The last few chapters will come in quick succession._

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Eight**

Dick drifted awake and looked up at a bat dangling from a stalactite. It looked back at him for a moment, then fluttered to a different perch. If the bats were coming home, it must be nearly dawn. He turned his head cautiously and felt the strap of a sling rub against the side of his neck. But the motion didn't make him feel sick.

He sat up. That hurt. The sort of dull, constant pain that meant Alfred had given him low-level painkillers. Good. He hated the off-balance feeling he got from the heavy stuff.

"I've finished the blood analyses." Alfred's voice drifted across the cave from the computer station. "Both samples did indeed contain venom, from the _androctonus amoreuxi _scorpion. However, it seems Master Dick was the primary target; the dosage was not adjusted upward for your greater body mass."

Dick frowned. Always him. Why did the villains always have to go after him? That made twice in one night: the poison and Petra's death trap were both aimed at Robin, when she could have killed them both.

"_Androctonus amoreuxi_." The radio speakers and high cave ceiling combined to put a tinny echo in Bruce's voice. "I recognise the name."

"Yes, sir. The computer file indicates you encountered the same venom once before, in a storehouse belonging to—"

"R'as al Ghul," growled Bruce. "But this is far from his usual style."

Dick slid to his feet, carefully, silently. Still no nausea, just a bit of queasiness. And the ghost of a headache. He padded across the medical area toward the rack where he kept his costumes. Quiet, quiet—sometimes he'd swear Alfred was the one with bat ears. He scooped up his gear in his good arm and started inching toward the nearest drop-off staircase.

The computer's beeping held Alfred's attention for the moment. "Ah—there's more, sir," he said. "The computer just gave me a match for a synthetic compound also present in the blood samples. Oh, dear."

Dick darted down to the garage level while Alfred was busy, slipped on his mask as he ran. The cave's acoustics shattered Alfred's and Bruce's voices into meaningless reverberations, but also masked his own footsteps. He reached the bottom without incident and stuffed the rest of his uniform into the tiny luggage compartment behind the seat of his motorcycle. Better to get out while he could and change once Alfred couldn't stop him.

He kicked the motorcycle to life and sped for the exit. Behind him, Alfred's voice rose sharply, but he ignored it and shot out into the crisp early morning darkness, flipped off the radios in his mask and bike. Clear and away. He laughed and accelerated down the lane toward the main city. He liked driving, even when every bump and dip in the road sent a jerk of pain through him. In a few months he'd even be old enough to drive legally.

In the last secluded patch of brush before the houses started clustering in earnest, he stopped for a minute to change. He stuffed the sling away in the bike's compartment. Any sign of weakness was an invitation for an attack, right? He ignored the fresh stab of pain as his arm dropped to his side.

He hopped back on the bike and roared into town with his cape flapping behind him. Bruce was probably furious by now. And he'd be even more furious once he figured out where Dick was going. But he had to; he knew he could get Petra to talk. He was her type, right? She liked talking to her handsome young cops and soldiers before she killed them.

Gordon's car was in the parking area behind the station. Good. Robin parked his bike beside it and fired a grappler to catch above the Commissioner's office window. As soon as the line started retracting to pull him up, he wished he'd just used the door for once. His right hand was too sore and too clumsy with bandages to get a good grip, and his left arm wouldn't support much weight. He clung on with both hands and made it to the window ledge. Then he had to huddle there for a minute and force his breathing back to normal. Ok, ready. Or as ready as he could be.

He slid the window open and dropped inside. "Commissioner."

Gordon looked up from his desk. "You're never going to use the door, are you?"

Dick grinned. "No, sir."

"Where's Batman?"

"Otherwise occupied." By now, probably occupied looking for his wayward partner. There'd be hell to pay later. Robin tried to clasp his hands behind his back, but twisting his shoulder backward hurt too much.

"I take it you're here about the meta you collared."

"I'd like to talk to her."

Gordon rose and walked around the desk to frown down at Robin. "Your boss gave her a concussion and fractured both her hands."

"I'm not him." Gordon had to let him in. He knew how useful the bats had been, he knew Robin wouldn't do anything extreme. He had to give Dick something worthwhile to offset the trouble he'd be in.

The commissioner's gaze raked up and down Robin a little more sharply than he liked. "Ten minutes," he said.

The smile bounced back to Dick's face. "Thanks, Commish."

Gordon muttered something inaudible, but led the way out of the office.

Dick ghosted after him, clinging to the shadows, but they passed nobody. Who would hang around the holding cells at four in the morning?

As they approached Petra's cell, Gordon's hand fell on Robin's shoulder. He tensed and bit his lip, but managed not to flinch away. No weakness allowed in front of Gordon.

"You sure you want to go in there with this creep?"

Dick turned and smirked up at Gordon. "You know I've dealt with worse creeps."

"All right." Gordon unlocked the cell and opened the door. "I'm watching."

Dick stepped inside, heart racing.

"You came," said Petra. She stood up to face Robin. The handcuff chain jingled between her bandaged hands.

Robin pulled in a deep breath, as quietly as he could. He'd been right, she was ready to talk to him. She was too close, way too close, but she was smiling and fascinated and that meant he could wrap her around his finger. Yeah.

"I couldn't leave things unfinished," said Dick. His voice stayed steady, somehow. She was wearing an inhibitor collar. No crystals. He was safe. He didn't feel safe.

Petra stepped closer. Her breath smelled sharp and mineral. "You're different," she said. "The others wouldn't have come back to me, would they?"

"No."

She raised her hands to lift Dick's chin. "You're a little younger than my usual boyfriends. But I knew you were special. You're not as easy as the rest. I've never needed a second date before. Maybe we can try again." Her hands trailed down to brush against his wounded shoulder. The chain of the handcuffs tapped against his collarbone.

"Maybe we can," he said. His voice stayed calm. He knew how she thought, he had studied her crime scenes with Bruce, he knew how to manipulate her, he could do this. The reassurances chanted themselves over and over in his head, flat and useless. He felt the touch of her cool breath against his cheek, stirring his hair, the light brush of her fingers against his shoulder. It made him feel sick again. Six hours ago she tried to kill him. Now she was trying to, what, seduce him? He clenched his teeth and forced his body to relax instead of shuddering and jerking away from her. He looked right into her eyes and somehow managed to smile. "I know why it didn't work the first time," he said.

"Oh?" Her hands slid across the top of his shoulder and rubbed the tunic and bandage against his skin. It hurt.

"Because you weren't doing it right." Robin dropped his voice to a whisper. Maybe for the atmosphere, maybe so Gordon wouldn't hear, he wasn't quite sure which. "You let someone else tell you how to do things, and his rules got in your way. You grabbed me off the street instead of meeting me in a bar like you did the other ones. You beat me and poisoned me instead of seducing me. That's not how it's supposed to work."

"No, it's not."

She smiled back at him and leaned in close, so close her lips almost touched his, and her hands pressed down on his shoulder until the pain lanced up his neck and jolted down his arm to his fingertips. His breath caught and came faster as he struggled to stay still, hold eye contact with her, keep smiling and talking so he wouldn't lose the moment. So close…he almost had her there…

"Who's more important than this? Who's trying to keep you from doing this right?" He heard the tension in his voice now, fear and pain squeezing his throat.

But she was too far gone in her sick fantasy, she didn't notice. "Nobody, Sun Wukong, he's not important," she muttered. "I don't even like Asians. I didn't want to help him, but he said he knew people who I might like, lots of people. And he was right, he helped me find you, didn't he?"

Her hands squeezed so hard his breath rasped and tears of pain blurred his eyes, but he was finished. He had a name. He wrenched free and ran for the door, just ran as fast as he could. It didn't matter that Gordon was watching. Gordon couldn't blame him. He lurched into the hallway and slammed the door behind him, leaned against the wall and rubbed his shoulder as if that could somehow wash away her touch. The wound was throbbing now, pain darting up his neck into the side of his head.

"Robin?"

He dropped his hand guiltily back to his side, but he knew the commissioner had seen. He straightened up and tried for a bright smile. "Not bad, huh?"

They walked away from the holding area, out of sight, out of earshot of Petra. Then Gordon stopped and gave Robin a look. "What happened at that warehouse last night?"

Dick smirked. "It's not dawn yet. It's still tonight."

"She hurt you. That's why Batman took her down so hard."

"I'm fine."

Another look, the kind that Gordon probably used on his own stubborn kid. "I'm not stupid. You've been favouring your left arm since you came in the window."

Dick gave a one-sided shrug. "Thank you for letting me talk to her."

"Robin—"

He grinned, threw off a sloppy salute, and bounded across to open the nearest window. "See you around, Commish." He slipped out onto the ledge and fired his grappler up to the roof. Normally he'd swing across toward the next building, but right now he hurt too much. He let out the line slowly and slid down the wall into the parking lot.

Sun Wukong. The name sounded familiar, but from school, not from the streets. A character in a story, maybe? Historical? Mythological? Bruce would know.

Dick sank onto the seat of his motorcycle with a sigh. All right. Time to bite the bullet and call in. He flipped his radio back on. "Batman, come in."


	9. Chapter 9

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Nine**

Scorpion venom. A strange choice. Dangerous, but relatively easy to neutralise. Antivenom, Pepto-Bismol, and a few hours, and the effects were already fading.

"Ah—there's more, sir," Alfred said. "The computer just gave me a match for a synthetic compound also present in the blood samples. Oh dear."

Bruce's fingers tightened around his binoculars. "What?"

"It's a tracer compound," Alfred's voice trickled into his ear. "A sort of tag."

Also part of his catalogue of nasty things from the storehouse where he'd encountered this venom before. No coincidence, but still not R'as al Ghul's style. Batman tucked away his binoculars—he hadn't seen anything useful here anyway—and slid down the slant of the roof. Dick and Alfred were safe; the secret was safe. He'd shielded the cave against every tracker and sensor he could think of.

He dropped from the sloped roof to the flat roof beside it. If he could trace the tracer to its source, the hunt was over. "Alfred, I want you to—"

"Blast!" said Alfred. "Master Dick! Master Dick, come back at once!"

Bruce broke into a run, back toward the car. Disobedient, reckless little—this changed the priority. He flipped his cowl radio to Dick's channel. "Robin, return to base. There's a tracer on you, your position is compromised. Robin, come in. Respond!"

Nothing. Of course. Batman launched himself from the building's edge and fired a grappler, arced down and dropped into the car so fast the impact jolted his headache to life again. Not important. He stepped on the gas.

"Alfred."

"Yes, sir?"

"Run a full frequency analysis of the tracer compound; find what it responds to. I need to know its range, its precision. Call me as soon as you get anything. Batman out."

He didn't need a tracer to find Robin. Dick must know Petra would talk to him; it was part of her MO, every time. Talk to the victim, play out some twisted romance, then kill him. Bruce's foot slammed down harder; he wrenched the wheel around and turned onto a larger road, swerved through the first scattering of early commuters, left them all behind, turned down a narrow shortcut alley. Maybe an hour, hour and a half till dawn. His head had started pounding steadily again.

Someone was following him. A black SUV. Petra's co-workers, no doubt. Tracing him. They'd be on Robin's tail too. But Robin was probably at the police station by now. He'd be safe there, hopefully long enough for Batman to catch up.

Another SUV pulled out in front of him and stopped, blocking the alley.

Bruce stepped on the gas, smashed into the SUV, sent it sliding ahead of him. It skidded, started spinning—and jammed lengthwise across the alley with a scream of metal, showers of sparks where it scraped the brick walls, a jolt that flung Bruce forward against his seatbelt. Behind him, the other car pulled right up to his bumper and spat out four goons.

Fine. They wanted to corner him when he was angry, fine. Batman slid back the top of his car and leapt free, fast enough that the first few bullets flew wide. He landed on the roof of the SUV behind him and didn't stop long enough for them to adjust their aim. He let his momentum carry him into a jump, landed on one goon, rolled free as the man crumpled, kicked the feet from under another, flung a fist up to meet the chin on the way down, and then the rest started shooting again. There were four more from the second car.

He didn't have time for this, not when Robin could be in danger. He flung a smoke pellet and sprang sideways, cape swirling out around him. Bullets sliced through the murky shadows, ripped into the edge of the cape, but they were shooting blind. He fired a line upward, and by the time the smoke cleared, he was gone.

Tonight his usual vanishing tricks wouldn't work; they'd just trace him again. But he didn't have time to fight them now. He swung toward the police station as fast as he could. Far slower than the car. Already twenty, twenty-five minutes had passed since Dick left the cave. And Gordon wouldn't appreciate a vigilante hanging around his station too long; Robin would be on the move again soon.

Batman landed on a ledge and let himself rest for a few seconds, panting. He was moving too slowly. Unacceptable. He normally crossed this distance without trouble. But now pain thundered behind his eyes and his muscles trembled with fatigue and his stomach churned with renewed queasiness. A few hours wasn't long enough for the antivenom to finish its work, especially since he hadn't rested.

Time to move on anyway. He fired a jumpline and glided to the next rooftop. Not much further. A black SUV passed below him. Coincidence, or the goons tailing him?

"Batman, come in." Dick's voice crackled over the radio, tired but safe.

"Robin, stay in the police station," Batman ordered. "Petra's friends have your location. Do not leave the station."

A pause. "Too late," said Robin, far too cheerfully, and the sound of scuffling and swearing filled Batman's ear.

Fresh adrenaline rushed through Bruce, and he raced across the rooftops, leaping and swinging like he'd slept all night. He could see the police station looming ahead now, growing larger. "Evade, don't fight!" he barked into his radio, but he couldn't tell if Dick was listening, if he even heard. The link was still open; he heard a crunch that sounded like boot on bone, a howl from one of the thugs. He ran faster.

"Petra talked," said Robin. "Ah—" Another flurry of noise crackled through Bruce's earpiece, a thud, a sharp hiss of pain from Dick. "Sorry—these guys—seem to have—a grudge." His voice came in ragged pants now, trying to catch his breath. "Right, Petra's boss—Asian guy—called Sun Wukong—aah!"

The radio link went silent.

"Robin!"

Nothing.

He fired a final jumpline and dropped into the police parking lot, but he was too late. Two unconscious goons. Robin's motorcycle. Damn it, if he'd been just fifteen seconds faster, just ten seconds faster—

He slammed a fist against the wall of the station and switched comm frequencies. "Alfred!"

"Yes, sir?" The reply came instantly, cool and calm and in control, everything Bruce needed to be right now.

"Did you find the tagging frequency?"

"I believe so. Are you currently outside the police station?"

Relief washed through him. "Find the other signal."

"Robin?"

"Taken. Again. Find him!" Batman leapt onto Robin's motorcycle. It was too small, but plenty fast enough. It roared to life at his command and he shot out into the street with Alfred's voice guiding him and the first pale pre-dawn glow touching the sky behind him. The wind whipping across his face seemed to clear his mind. He knew better than to rush in. Robin was taken, not killed; that meant he was bait.

He raked his mind for knowledge of Petra's employer. Sun Wukong. He knew the name. Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, a character from Chinese mythology who tried to steal immortality from the gods. He didn't know the man behind the name.

"Alfred, check the database for the name Sun Wukong, Asian criminal. Cross-reference against R'as al Ghul."

"Yes, sir. Also, Robin's signal has stopped moving. He's in the industrial district."

Bruce ground his foot down. The speedometer climbed toward eighty.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Ten**

"Do not leave the station," said Bruce, but before Robin could respond, a black SUV screeched to a halt and six thugs piled out toward him. He just couldn't catch a break tonight, could he?

"Too late," he said, and beckoned the goons with a grin. Because egging on your enemies while weak and wounded was always a smart move, right? Oh, well. They charged obligingly, and Dick bent, scooped up a handful of grit and gravel, and tossed it in their faces.

The first two cursed and stumbled, and Robin chucked a smoke bomb between them to burst around the other four, then swept a foot left, right, and the already off-balance leaders went down.

"Evade, don't fight," said Bruce in his ear.

Dick jumped for his bike just as one of the downed thugs lunged for him, and he barely had time to realise he hadn't jumped fast enough before a meaty fist closed on the end of his cape. The cloth jerked against his throat, yanked him back and the goon forward. Robin hit the ground hard but managed to roll on his good shoulder and lash out behind him. His boot hit the guy's shoulder and he felt the collarbone snap under his foot, heard a wail of pain, tugged free and made another leap for his motorcycle.

This time he made it to the saddle. "Petra talked," he told Bruce as his bandaged hand fumbled for the ignition. Too slow. "Ah—" He threw himself off the other side of the bike as a gun swung toward him, and just in time: he felt the ripple of heat as the bullet whizzed past his leg. He tumbled straight from fall into crouch and rose with a birdarang already leaving his hand. Decent throw, not his best, hit the arm instead of the gun, but it worked. The guy dropped his weapon to clutch his bleeding wrist.

Then the other three jumped him. He recognised one, greasy moustache topped with a black eye; he'd kicked that guy in the head a few hours ago, and the guy looked mad about it. He came at Dick with everything, managed to land a solid hit to his left arm, and a wave of pain sliced up through his wounded shoulder, bad enough to drive out all his breath in a hiss.

"Sorry," he grunted into his radio as he brought up his knee into greasy moustache's crotch. "These guys—" The other two still had hands on him, heavy fingers digging into his arms and trying to pin him down. "—seem to have—" He got another good kick in, and greasy moustache went down and out. "—a grudge."

He was free for a second, but the guy with the gun was back in the fight now, brandishing the bloody birdarang he'd yanked out of his arm. This was embarrassing. Robin should be able to take six thugs, no problem. But the way this fight was going, they were going to bring him down. Again. He had to pass on his intel first. "Right, Petra's boss," he started, and ducked a sloppy punch. "Asian guy—" Jerk tried to cut him with his own birdarang; Robin grabbed the knife hand, locked it between his hands and twisted with a side-step, felt the weapon fall to clatter at his feet. "—called Sun Wukong—" But turning to disarm this guy put one of the others behind him, and that wouldn't be a problem, except that his legs were shaking and refused to move fast enough, and a fist crashed down on his shoulder. "—aah!"

Pain wiped out the world for a second, and then he was on his knees with the goons wrenching his arms behind him and zip-tying his hands together. They dragged him into the SUV, and for the moment he couldn't summon the strength to struggle. He slumped in the back seat, panting, squashed between two hunks of muscle. He felt sweaty and shaky, way more tired than he should have been after a one-minute fight, getting a little nauseous again as the SUV swerved and swayed through the narrow back streets. Serve these thugs right if he barfed on their laps.

He clenched his eyes shut and breathed slowly, trying to bring down his heart rate. His shoulder throbbed, and a trickle of warmth dripping down into his armpit told him he'd torn the stitches. Boy Blunder. Yep, that was him. Captured twice in one night by the same gang of second-rate henchmen in their cliché black SUVs.

The car stopped. Robin opened his eyes and instantly recognised the seedier side of the industrial district. "Nice real estate," he told the thug who hauled him out of the SUV. "Definitely a step up from that old warehouse. Do you get cable?"

No answer, as expected. The door of the grubby building opened and they all filed into a dim space full of broken-down machinery. The thug with the bleeding wrist and the one with the broken collarbone vanished through another door, while the other two marched Robin across the room and shoved him into a chair, then wound a rope around his chest to pin him in place with his hands still zip-tied behind him, crushed between his back and the chair.

"You've given me a lot of trouble," said a voice, tinged with an Asian accent. "This was supposed to be over hours ago." A short, unremarkable man stepped out of the shadows.

"You'd be Sun Wukong, then?" guessed Robin. This guy didn't look like the boss of anyone. He wore a black t-shirt, grubby cargo pants with a gun stuffed down the waistband, a stereotypical sort of Chinese bowl-cut. "You don't look like much," said Dick. He grinned and crossed his legs like he was right at home. Stupid of them, not to tie his legs to the chair. He could break free in no time. If his aching body cooperated. Sitting with his hands pinned behind him was making his shoulder hurt worse.

"I'm not much," Sun Wukong replied. "At least, not yet."

"Well, that's refreshing," Robin drawled. "You wouldn't believe the egos on most of the villains I know."

"Oh, yes, I would." Sun Wukong pulled another chair over and straddled it with his elbows on the backrest. "I used to work with one of them."

"You mean for one of them. No offense, but you look like the henchman type."

Sun Wukong scowled. "Not after tonight. By sunrise, I'll be immortal."

This wasn't adding up. Robin struggled to keep a bored expression on his face, like he wasn't hearing anything new. But inside he tried to find pieces to put together. Part of him had expected to find one of Batman's old enemies pulling Petra's strings. But this…this glorified goon who thought capturing Robin could somehow make him immortal?

"Last I checked, I don't know the secret to immortality," Robin said. Well, technically, he did: go jump in a Lazarus Pit. He smirked. "You might try calling R'as al Ghul for tips."

Sun Wukong's face flushed furious red. "Don't you ever shut up, brat?"

Dick grinned. "Nope." So, the Demon's name struck a nerve. Dick could put two and two together. Sun Wukong must have worked for R'as and ended up hating his boss. Maybe Batman kicked him in the face a few times and he got fed up and decided to quit the minion life and get some revenge on the Dark Knight for breaking his nose once too often. Or something.

"So…what do you want with me?" asked Robin.

"I'm going to kill you." Sun Wukong stood up and drew his gun.

Oops, wrong question. "Wait, hang on!" Dick yelped. "I don't understand. You went to all this trouble just to shoot me in the head?"

"Well, I was hoping not to go to all this trouble. Petra was supposed to kill you. And then Batman would beat on her until she told him about me, and then he'd come for me. But this works too. I'm sure Batman's on his way here by now. He'll find you dead."

The barrel of the gun meandered back and forth through the air as Sun Wukong spoke. By now it was pointing somewhere to Robin's right instead of at his face. He took a deep breath and got ready to move. He could kick the gun out of Sun Wukong's hand, wriggle the loop of rope up over his shoulders, and run for it. If Sun Wukong would just get a couple steps closer. Ok, play for time.

Dick summoned up a laugh. "Let me get this straight, you actually want to get chased across Gotham by an angry Batman whose partner you just murdered?"

Sun Wukong stepped closer, leaned in a little. The gun dipped toward the floor. "I'll be immortal!" he whispered. His eyes lit up with a touch of that crazy gleam Robin recognised all too well. Just a little closer. If he'd lean just a little closer…

He straightened and moved away, and now the gun rose to aim at Robin's head again. "I did my homework. I know how prepared you and your partner are. I told Petra how to keep Batman trapped so he couldn't save you. I gave her the poison in case her plan didn't work and the tracking compound in case the poison didn't work."

"Yeah, I figured that much out on my own." Dick gave another cheeky grin. Maybe he could keep this nut talking until Batman showed up. "Not bad for a henchman. Let's call it a six out of ten for preparation. But only four out of ten for the monologue. It's more of a crazy ramble, so far."

"I'm not crazy," said Sun Wukong, with that crazy glitter in his eyes. "I'm a dead man no matter what. But I'm going to die immortal. I'm stealing immortality from the gods right here. One bullet, bang, and Batman will never forget me. And I know you're friends with all the big names, too. Superman and Wonder Woman. The Justice League will never forget me. I live forever."

He pulled the trigger just as the front door exploded.

Robin was already moving, kicking against the floor as hard as he could, twisting sideways against the bonds. He heard the gun go off, lost in the roar of the explosion, felt the chair tipping, all in a split second, had he moved fast enough? His wounded shoulder hit the floor first and wrenched back against the edge of the chair, sent a bolt of agony flaring down across his chest. Or did the pain in his chest mean he was too slow and Sun Wukong hit him? He focused on breathing, like Bruce taught him, slow deep breaths, push through the pain and keep thinking straight, think about something else. Bruce was here now. The noise of the explosion was still ringing in his ears; it had only been a few seconds.

"I killed him!" yelled Sun Wukong behind him. "Robin's dead! I live forever!"


	11. Chapter 11

**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Eleven**

Traffic lined the streets between the police station and the industrial district. The beginning of morning rush hour. The eastern sky was pale grey now, almost pink. Robin's motorcycle wove through the traffic far better than the car could have. Bruce leaned low over the handlebars, willing himself toward Robin. It was taking too long. Again. He knew he couldn't fly in unprepared, but he couldn't slow down, not when he didn't know what Sun Wukong might do to Dick.

"Alfred!" he growled.

"Yes, sir, just completing the search now. I'm afraid I can't find any mention of a criminal called Sun Wukong."

Damn it. Bruce's mind raced, leapt to the poison, the trackers, R'as al Ghul's warehouse. He'd done a follow-up on that warehouse, traced its contents, captured some of the nastier things before they made it to the black market. "Check for names associated with al Ghul's warehouse," he said.

Horns blared as the he swerved back and forth around painfully slow cars, breaking a dozen traffic rules. He pressed his foot harder to the accelerator and whipped around a corner so fast his knee almost touched the ground and his cape billowed and snapped in the wind. Almost there.

The radio crackled to life again. "Ah, your file references three felons by the names of Said Abdul, Garrett "Jazz" McCarthy, and Michael Wu."

"That's him." He remembered adding Wu to the database, and all the pieces started falling into place. "His file."

"Yes, ah, it appears he served R'as al Ghul as hired muscle for some time. He was in charge at the warehouse. After your interference, he fell off the map along with many of the warehouse's contents. He has since appeared in several cities, associated with a number of black market deals. And turn left ahead; Master Dick's signal is coming from the fourth building on the right."

The tires screamed across the pavement as Bruce turned onto a long, crooked street lined with run-down industrial lots. The building rushed toward him, a low heap of metal and cheap roofing with towers of rusting machinery behind it and three men with guns slouching outside.

He slammed on the bike's brakes and jumped, letting his momentum carry him into a flying kick to one of the guards. The man dropped instantly, and Batman whirled on the other two, flicked out two batarangs to knock aside their guns, closed the distance in the blink of an eye and lashed out to the sides with both hands, a sweeping motion to the heads that sent the men staggering past him to crumple to the ground while he kept moving between them toward the door, already reaching to his belt for an explosive.

The door blasted to pieces, and through the flying debris Batman saw the flash of a gun, not aimed at him, saw Robin in a chair tip back and sideways and crash to the floor. No! He wasn't—he couldn't be too late!

"I killed him!" yelled Michael Wu, waving the gun. "Robin's dead! I live forever!"

Batman descended. His foot smashed into Wu's wrist, snapped it like a twig, and Wu howled and dropped the gun. The kick carried Bruce forward, close enough to drive a fist into Wu's ribs and feel bone crack again, and again. Too easy. His knuckles gouged into the soft belly and the man sagged, crunched into the face and the man crumpled. Nothing but a thug with a gun, no skill, nothing at all. His hand closed around Wu's throat and he slammed him back against the wall. If Robin was really dead—

"Batman! That's enough."

Dick's voice punched through the rage and terror and suddenly Bruce could breathe again. He opened his fist. Wu slid down the wall, gasping for air, clutching his throat with his uninjured hand, and smiling.

Bruce turned around.

Robin still lay where he had fallen, tied to the chair. No huge pool of blood, no bullet wound. He was wriggling back and forth, slowly shifting the loop of rope up his chest and over his shoulders, but Bruce could see his face and neck clench with pain at every motion.

"I'll get it," he said, and swept across to crouch beside his son. A batarang slashed through the rope and the zip-ties in seconds.

Robin sat up, cradling his left arm across his lap and clutching his shoulder with the other hand. He didn't meet Bruce's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Batman's gaze dropped to Dick's shoulder. "Let me see." He gently pushed Dick's hand aside and found his tunic damp with blood again. "You've torn your stitches."

"Yeah, I noticed." Dick winced as Bruce pressed a fresh wad of gauze on top of the soaked bandage. Then he smirked. "Two uniforms ruined in one night. That's got to be a record, even for me."

A flicker of motion jerked Batman's attention back to Michael Wu, struggling to sit up against the wall. He smiled through broken teeth. "I still won," he groaned.

Batman surged to his feet, but Dick's laugh moved faster and stopped him in his tracks. He turned back as Robin sprang up. God only knew where Dick's energy was coming from at this point; Bruce could see pain trembling through the boy's whole body as he sauntered forward to stand beside Bruce.

"You didn't win," said Dick. "I'm still alive."

"I made my mark," sneered Wu. "You won't forget me."

Dick laughed again. "You mean Petra made a mark. I'll have a scar to remember her by. But you? Do you have any idea how many people have tried to kill me? I've lost count of how many times I've gotten kidnapped, tied up, and stuck in death traps. Nothing special."

Bruce watched as Wu's face slackened in defeat. Just like that. Batman's fists broke bones, but with a laugh and a flippant remark, Robin defeated Sun Wukong.

The sound of sirens pierced the sudden quiet.

"Time to go," said Batman.

Robin gave him a bright grin. "I could do with some breakfast." He turned his back on Wu and strolled out of the building, side by side with Batman.

As soon as they stepped through what was left of the door, out of Wu's sight, Dick's breath caught sharply and he sagged against Bruce. "Sorry," he mumbled. His right hand rose again to press against his shoulder.

Bruce slid an arm around him for support and pulled him into the shadows as a police car screeched to a halt. Time to go home.


	12. Chapter 12

_Well, here's the final chapter. Thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed; this has been a lot of fun to write. I'm already working on another story, so if you feel any inclination to stick about, you may expect more from me within a couple weeks._

___Also, I drew a picture to go with this story, though I can't seem to get a link to function. Look up heimeldat on deviantart and you should find it._  


**A Night in the Life**

**Chapter Twelve**

"I still won," said Sun Wukong.

Dick laughed before he could think. Part of him was just laughing because he was exhausted and hurt and scared and if he didn't laugh he'd cry. But partly he wanted Sun Wukong to know he'd lost. If the villain won, Robin wouldn't laugh, right?

Batman was standing. Robin couldn't stay on the floor. He jumped up fast, before his body could remember how much it wanted to disobey him. The motion sent a flash of white pain down his arm and up his neck. The adrenaline that rushed through him when the gun fired and the door exploded and he knocked his chair over was gone now, and he ached all over. But they'd beat the bad guy, and that gave him enough strength to smile and step forward beside Batman.

"You didn't win," he said. "I'm still alive."

Sun Wukong smiled back. "I made my mark. You won't forget me."

Robin laughed again. "You mean Petra made a mark." He forced both hands to stay by his sides, resisted the urge to curl around the pain and hug his wounded arm to him. "I'll have a scar to remember her by. But you?" He started to shrug, thought better of it as his shoulder screamed protest, and settled for copying Sun Wukong's sneer. "I've lost count of how many times I've gotten kidnapped, tied up, and stuck in death traps. Nothing special."

Sun Wukong's smile slipped, then crumpled up like a dirty tissue.

"Time to go," said Batman, and Robin realised he could hear sirens approaching. Bruce's mouth was a hard, cold line below the mask. That meant he was still worried or angry.

Dick turned his smile toward Bruce and tried to make it say: I'm all right, I knew you'd come, everything's fine now. Out loud he just said, "I could do with some breakfast." He suddenly realised he had been fighting and running and battling poison and blood loss for hours without any food. No wonder he felt so weak and shaky.

He barely made it outside before he collapsed against Batman. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight back the pain, but it wasn't working this time. It seemed like Bruce could always work through pain, but he wasn't Bruce. "Sorry," he breathed. He crossed his arms, curled the left one against his chest, protected it with the right. His shoulder was on fire and now he felt bruises starting where he'd hit the floor. His upper arm and hip were going to be black and blue tomorrow.

Bruce steered him across cracked, uneven asphalt, away from the faint warmth of dawn into deeper shadow. He could feel the change in temperature without opening his eyes. They were in an alley now. He stumbled along for what felt like forever, with Bruce's arm steady around his waist. The hard edges of Batman's gauntlet pressed into his back.

At last they stopped. "Sit," said Bruce.

Dick slid down to sit on damp pavement with a cold brick wall behind him. He opened his eyes and realised they'd only come fifty feet down the alley, around a corner into a grimy sort of courtyard formed by the backs of several buildings.

"Alfred," said Bruce, "send the backup car to our location."

"Of course, sir." Alfred's voice crackled through Dick's radio as well, soothing and steady as ever. "I shall also take the liberty of preparing further medical attention for the both of you upon your return. And I shall have breakfast ready as well."

"Good." Bruce sat beside Dick and bent over his shoulder again, examining the injury more carefully. "You know you'll be off patrol until this heals."

Dick made a face, but didn't have enough energy to be annoyed right now. "I figured." He sat silent for a long moment, then said, "He told me he was as good as dead."

"He stole a large amount of valuable property from R'as al Ghul and sold it on the black market. The Demon doesn't forgive."

"So he just wanted to…go out with a bang?" It sort of made sense. The guy was still crazy, but if he was expecting to die, Dick could see him wanting to make a last, desperate grab for something bigger or better.

"To steal immortality from the gods," said Bruce. "To be remembered by heroes." His voice was cold and heavy with disgust.

Robin shuddered. He never forgot the ones who came this close to killing him. Did that mean Sun Wukong won after all? It really was a kind of immortality, wasn't it? "Was he right?" he asked quietly.

"No." Bruce met his eyes. "You were right. He was nothing special." The white lenses said nothing, but below the cowl, his mouth softened, almost smiling. "Just another night in the life of Batman and Robin."


End file.
